


absolution

by matskreider



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Threesome - M/M/M, is this an au? is it not? its up for you to decide, oversensitivity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 15:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15997646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matskreider/pseuds/matskreider
Summary: A saint’s desires are always benign.





	absolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BB63](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BB63/gifts).



He likes it when Tuukka gets rough with him. He likes it when he sees through the partially-deserved “Saint Patrice” moniker; when he reaches through and binds his unearned angel wings tight to his back, making him feel human again. He loves it when Tuukka rakes his nails down his chest, his abs, his thighs, until red lines crisscross all over his body. He loves it when Tuukka has his neck in a soft, yet unyielding, grasp, keeping his head pressed against his shoulder, forcing him to look up.

Pat is enthralled with every move Tuukka makes, and it brings him to the edge almost as fast as the low, growled dirty talk in his ear. He’s too far gone to bother understanding most of it, instead focusing on how good it feels to have Tuukka’s entire attention – and damn if that isn’t a cross and a half to bear – centered on him, the lightness of his mind juxtaposed with the heaviness of his body. All of this, and he hasn’t even fucked him yet.

He’s still toying with him.

Language has long since left him, his tongue useless except to pant beseechingly at the ceiling, as if to taste release in the air. A small, strangled whine wrenches from his throat, coming out twisted and rough, and it earns him a low laugh.

Tuukka mutters something about “such a good boy,” or at least that’s what Pat thinks he hears. His goalie reaches up to toy with his nipples, tweaking and flicking them, a sensitive spot that makes Pat shirk backwards, pressing further into Tuukka’s hold. His mouth feels dry, but his stomach feels wet, soaked with sticky trails of his own precum.

This is to say nothing of the wetness between his thighs, where Tuukka had coated him with lube and proceeded to teasingly fuck against his legs, letting Patrice feel the power hidden expertly within that wiry frame. He feels Tuukka release his throat, grabbing onto his forearms and holding his arms flush against his body. Pat feels exposed like this, held still and upright when he himself is so weak, but in the moment of adjustment he opens his eyes.

The sight of Brad, kneeling a few feet away from the foot of the bed, bound with honor and a spreader bar, sends shivers down his spine. His line mate whimpers from oversensitivity, having been forced to watch as Tuukka took Patrice part, as he stripped him down to nothing – mentally and physically – leaving him warm and pliant. That, and the vibrator lovingly strapped to his dick, never once wavering in the intensity.

A sticky white trail leaks down the side of his cock, leftovers from the small puddle present on the floor. Part of Patrice wants to join Brad down there, take his cock in his mouth and continue to suck him off until tears came freer than his body.

“Look at him,” Tuukka murmurs, trailing his lips down Patrice’s bruised neck, littered with hickies in what would be the last time before the season started. “He’s so fucking easy for it, isn’t he?”

Patrice, guided to the conclusion by the structure of the question itself, and the evidence presented in front of him, nods his head. He feels drunk, but alive; exhausted, but wired. He wants to get off, and right now he doesn’t care if it’s with Tuukka or Brad. He wants his mouth full – since that’s all Brad really is anyway, but the thought still makes his mouth water – and he wants to let Tuukka take what he wants from him.

But most of all, he wants to not think.

He looks down at Brad again, who can’t bear to look up. The winger is slumped over, his head bowed as if in prayer. To kneel in worship at the foot of the altar where _this_ – the defiling of a saint, if the rumors were to be believed – is common place says all too much about him. The fact that neither party involved knows to whom he prays says all the more.

In a rare moment of clarity, Patrice thinks about how he could ask for what he wants. How he could turn to Tuukka, and lick his bitten red lips, maybe even pull the devil in for a kiss, and whimper and whine until he gave in.

A saint’s desires are always benign.

“I…” Patrice can’t force another sound out of his mouth. But he has Tuukka’s attention on him, still so intense, so of course the goalie hears the soft noise.

“Yes?” he prompts. How he can make a single syllable so patronizing yet soothing, Patrice has no idea.

_I want._ The desire is there, but he can’t articulate it. He feels his pulse along the red lines littered across his body, against the deceptively strong grip on his arms, in the ache between his legs. He _needs_ this; it’s surpassed a mere want at this point. Tuukka waits patiently, before nuzzling in close, and Pat knows he’s on the scent in more ways than one.

“You want him?” he purrs, voice so soft Patrice is forced to focus on it. He closes his eyes, and as he does so, he hears Brad inhale sharply. He wants to open his eyes, but there’s a hand covering them now, keeping him in the dark. He can only listen powerlessly as Brad’s noises start to increase in frequency and pitch, higher and faster still until he sobs. Patrice can imagine the helpless way he must be writhing; if he moves, he’ll be punished, but if he doesn’t, the torture continues.

Exquisite.

“You should have him,” Tuukka continues, as if nothing’s amiss. And, perhaps it’s not. This is common place for the three of them, to have one in tears, one in darkness, and one in control. That it alternates between the three of them is a secret no one shall know. “How do you want him? Wanna fuck him on his back? Or fuck his mouth?”

With his vision gone, every other sense becomes heightened; he swears he can feel his nerves crackling where Tuukka touches him. He wants to take Brad, yes, but not with his dick. He’d sooner leave that for the soft cotton sheets, or the calloused and warm grip of Tuukka’s left hand. A desperate whine weaves through the room, a pitiful sound that’s not quite enough to warrant ending their little game, but enough to prompt movement. It’s not until Pat feels Tuukka’s cock twitch between his thighs that Pat realizes the noise came from himself. Biting his lower lip, raw as it is, he rolls his hips back, trembling and unsteady, but quickly guided by a strong grip. Tuukka inhales sharply, and Pat notices that there’s an awful lot of similarities between the repentant and the devil himself.

Both seek forgiveness, in their own way. If they can find that forgiveness in his body, well who is he to withhold that from them?

“Bring him up here,” he manages, never once stopping his hips. It feels good to slide on Tuukka, long and curved as he was, and he can’t wait to feel it inside him. The goalie groans, low and feral, before pulling back and sliding off the bed. With his hand removed, Patrice opens his eyes.

He averts his gaze from the sight of Tuukka tending to Brad, checking in softly and unbinding him, out of respect for that which does not involve him. The dealings of the devil are not his responsibility.

This does not mean he is immune, however.

He himself slides down onto his hands and knees, arching his back to present for a man who has yet to return to bed. He keeps his gaze focused on the small stitches in their white comforter, balled up at the foot of the bed, which will act as a perfect pillow for Brad to recline against. Soon enough, Tuukka slips Brad into position, who is far too gone to be of any use. His cock is still hard, but softening, and wet from the near hour and a half of continuous forced orgasms. Pat lowers his head, his mouth already watering, before large hands grip onto his hips and pull him back, forcing a surprised noise from him.

The blunt sensation starts with a burn in his lower back, but he’s taken Tuukka often enough to know that this is all it will be. A soft glow of pain, enough to remind him in the future when he sits down, but not enough to warrant slowing. Tuukka doesn’t stop until his hips are flush against the curve of Patrice’s ass, the both of them already short for breath. Patrice’s thighs are slick with lube and pre-cum, and Tuukka reaches a hand between Pat’s legs to tease him a little more. The rough slide of a callus against his tip has him whimpering.

The sex-drunken, clumsy hand in his hair – Brad trying to guide him, trying to be helpful and bless his thrice broken heart for doing so – coaxes that whimper into a whine.

“Please,” he whispers, wanting so badly to take Brad’s cock into his mouth, even as he works his hips back onto Tuukka, doing the work for him. “ _Please._ ”

“Pls,” Brad slurs, barely cognizant of language. Pat knows that Tuukka has checked in with him to make sure that this is okay, that they can use him like this even after his own session with Tuukka earlier in the day. He reminds himself of that fact, even with how helpless Brad looks, spread out beneath him.

Something possessive within Patrice flares; it must be the devil within him. Tuukka must give some kind of signal, because Brad starts pushing haphazardly downwards. Pat needs no more pushing. He lowers his head and takes all of Brad in his mouth.

As he does so, Tuukka pushes his hips flush against the bed, trapping his arms underneath him. He picks up the pace, moving with steady, deep strokes that nearly abuses Pat’s prostate. He knows he’s making a bigger mess of the sheets below them, each thrust rubbing his cock against the cotton in a soft slide, not unlike Brad’s mouth.

Brad, for his part, his already trembling. Every minute adjustment Patrice makes shocks him, from moving his tongue to swallowing to gently suckling on Brad’s oversensitive cock. He looks up and sure enough, Brad has his own fingers in his mouth, lips and tongue working to try and counteract the overstimulation between his legs.

A summer-tanned hand grasps Brad’s wrist and pulls his hand away. His fingers are shining with his own spit, his gaze untethered from this realm. Tuukka replaces the wingers fingers with his own, and Patrice knows this from the pathetic way Brad’s hips try to fuck into his face, as if that would make up for his cock’s inability to get hard for the foreseeable future. He puts on a good show, moaning and deep throating the fingers, from the wet sounds Patrice can hear. From the murmured praise above him – directed at them both, possibly – it must feel good to Tuukka, too.

At some point, Patrice feels empty; Tuukka’s pulled out. Pat’s flipped over, partially, as he still manages to keep Brad’s cock in his mouth, only now he’s on his back. But then Tuukka’s back inside him, and it’s even hotter this way, he thinks. Soon after, Brad has a dry orgasm, his balls contracting but nothing coming out. Still, he shivers and shakes like it’s a real orgasm, openly sobbing now.

Pat would never say it out loud, but he loves bringing Brad to tears.

Tuukka grabs his jaw and forces him to look at him with his one free hand, the other one still in use in Brad’s mouth. He leans in, bracing his forearm on Pat’s chest, but it has to be mostly ab strength holding him up, and the change of angle gets him so deep Pat can feel him in his throat.

This is why the stories say to never let the devil in; he wears you down before you can get him out.

They end up resting foreheads against one another, Tuukka still fucking into Patrice’s body. He starts speaking through clenched teeth, breath coming in gasps, and Pat knows he’s close. He tightens his legs, and tries to focus on the questions.

_Do you know how fucking hot you are?_

**vanity is a sin.**

_Do you know how much I love this?_

**enough to give it, even when you can’t.**

_Do you know how much I love taking the two of you apart?_

**as much as i enjoy being taken apart.**

_Do you know?_

**i know, my love.**

_Do you?_

**i know.**

He comes with a deep groan, a release of tension that cuts through the bonds placed on his body, feeling his strength spread out to its full potential. He is at once everywhere and nowhere, everything and nothing, and he longs for these kinds of moments. Afterwards, the prolonged sensation pushes a small, meager amount from his body as he in turn is filled. Everything feels hot and wet to the touch, not yet cooled by their bedroom air.

He thinks he could give in more like this. He thinks he could put himself in Brad’s position, of kneeling prayer and absolution, only to find himself drawn into a game of lust. He thinks he could seduce Tuukka harder, more deliberately, to get right to the fucking he often so desperately needs. He doesn’t think he could ever replace Tuukka.

No one could.

Pat reaches up, settling a hand in the soft, summer-lightened curls above him. Tuukka leans into the touch, eyes closed, and for once, Patrice could see them like this forever. In a villa in France, or an island in Greece, where their only indulgences are chocolate, music, and each other. The desire wells like ichor in the back of his throat, the need burning not in his back, but in his chest. Faintly, above him, he hears Brad start to snore, passed out completely from the afternoon’s activities.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” Pat murmurs, the hickies already starting to lighten and fade. Soon other marks would leave too, and he would be left with just the memory of their skin and the noises wrung from tired and used throats.

When Tuukka opens his eyes to look down at him, his eyes look gold with grey flecks, instead of the other way around. But soon the illusion passes, and he nuzzles into Patrice’s delicate hold. “He’d never forgive us if we did. You know there’s always one more chance with him,” he murmurs, looking briefly at Brad’s limp form.

He’s right, but Pat hates to say it. “Maybe we’ll convince him. Sometime soon,” he adds, ever optimistic.

Tuukka only hums, far too low to be audible, and settles down over top of Patrice like a tiger would. Possessive and protective, yet lazy too.

Pat sighs and lets his head fall back on Brad’s still splayed thigh. “I want more time for _us._ ”

Tuukka hums again, but Patrice hears the answer within.

_I know, my love. I know._

**Author's Note:**

> my first fic at 22 and i post this shit
> 
> anyway come talk to me about it on [tumblr](https://matskreider.tumblr.com/)


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